


Tell Me What You Sing

by Yuudan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Blink And You'll Miss It Plot, Inappropriate Erections, John Is Naked, Kink, M/M, Sherlock's Voice, Voice Kink, ish, no couches were harmed in the making of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 18:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11407716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuudan/pseuds/Yuudan





	Tell Me What You Sing

At first John thought it was just admiration.

Because, let's face it, most of what came out of Sherlock's mouth was either witty insult or brilliant deduction, and both were often complex and always entertaining. And John was probably the only person who didn't get ticked off within three seconds of talking to Sherlock – it was a given that he liked hearing him talk. Of course, that didn't  _quite_ encompass what happened to him when the consulting detective went on one of his tirades or started dissecting a case, but John didn't concern himself with it. Just admiration, he told himself, that was all. 

It was fairly harmless at first – just him putting down the  _Guardian_ to close his eyes and let Sherlock's low baritone wash over him while the detective bounced ideas and theories off him. The ponce had no need for any actual  _opinion_ John might offer, of course, but as he'd been explained on several occasions, talking aloud helped Sherlock with his reasoning. So John let Sherlock talk  _at_ him, and he just listened, and it was win-win for everyone. And if he payed a bit more attention to the cadence and the inflection of the haughty tones than was strictly appropriate, well, nobody had to know, right? He was just appreciating the younger Holmes' deductive genius and whatnot.

It soon became clear that admiration had very little to do with it. Oh, he thought Sherlock was brilliant, and that was a fact, but... well, he really had a very nice voice, alright?

This became especially clear on a Thursday evening, towards the end of November, when the weather was far too cold to go out in search of a case, or in John's case drinking or meeting up with somebody. It was also raining, and so both Sherlock and John were content enough to stay inside where it was warm and dry. It was all terribly domestic, and John made it worse by curling up on the sofa with a book on his lap and a mug of hot tea waiting for him on the low table.

All the inactivity and lack of stimuli was naturally boring Sherlock to the point of tears. Well, maybe not  _tears_ , but to the point of trying to watch tv, which was more or less the same thing.

"No no  _no_ – of course he's not her lover! Look at his third button!" Sherlock snapped for the fifth time in as many minutes, and John sighed.

"Maybe you should turn off the tv," he said patiently, "I can only imagine what a man with your brother's resources would do to me if I let you burst a vein or have an aneurysm or something,"

Sherlock made a dismissive sound, "Mycroft rather likes you, actually. In fact, I suspect he'd scold _me_ for inconveniencing you,"

He raised an eyebrow, “Sure, if by 'likes' you mean 'barely tolerates',”

“No, he really does think you're quite – _of course the murderer isn't the gardener!_ Does none of them have _eyes?_ ”

“Sherlock – for your own good, turn off the tv,”

The consulting idiot made a strangled sound of frustration and jabbed the remote at the screen as tough trying to stab it with an invisible sword. Then, shoulders slumping, dropped back into his chair.

With even the meagre distraction of criticising tv shows – vein-popping though it was – taken from him, the younger Holmes started to rattle off percentages and extraordinarily obscure facts to entertain himself. It never ceased to amaze John that a man who didn't know about the earth's revolution around the sun could recite the latin names of all 64 species of possums without batting an eye.

But that was not the problem. The problem was that John was trying to read, and failing spectacularily at it. The words kept being drowned by Sherlock's low rumble, and he kept losing focus to stare at nothing while listening to every sound coming from his roommate's mouth, without being able to distinguish what he was actually going on about. It seemed every time the dark-haired genius said more than ten words at a time, John became automatically unable to do anything but listen, captivated, until either someone called him on it or Sherlock stopped talking.

And for the love of Pete, he couldn't even do something as simple washing the dishes while the consulting detective talked, let alone read.

Indeed, when he realized he'd been trying to read the same paragraph for nearly an hour, he shut his book, closed his eyes, and let the bored baritone lull him to sleep.

He had a feeling Sherlock kept talking for a while after that, and when he woke up in the middle of the night, the state of his – er – lower regions betrayed the kind of good dream he'd been having.

It was totally a coincidence, though. Seriously.

After that he admitted to himself that no, it was really Sherlock's voice that he liked. It was soothing and deep and haughty and he liked it maybe the way someone liked those relaxation tapes things that told you to breathe deeply and imagine a sphere of purifying light descend on you.  _Seriously_ . 

Of course even that justification came to a painful end after the shower thing. Much too soon, in John's opinion.

It was maybe in the earlier hours of the afternoon, when all was calm and the bathroom was miraculously clean of all Sherlock-grown mold coltures and other things people didn't want in their bathrooms, and John had chosen to take advantage of such a rare occurrence for a hot, drawn out shower to wash away the fatigue and the London grime.

He'd been done for almost twenty minutes, and just standing under the hot spray in bliss, when the phone rang. Being the person usually in charge of answering doors and phones and things Sherlock would be too focused to notice, he sighed and stretched a hand towards the towel, prepared to interrupt his moment of bliss to answer...but then he figured he deserved a bit of peace once in a while, and the consulting prick could stand to fend for himself for once.

"Sherlock, the phone!" he therefore yelled, "I'm in the shower!"

Surprisingly, Sherlock grumbled something in an annoyed tone, but his footsteps thumped readily enough in the direction of the phone, and John allowed himself a satisfied smile as he resumed lazing under the hot water.

His smile disapeared pretty fast however, because it seemed the detective had a lot to say to whoever had called, and the phone being just a few feet from the bathroom, John could hear pretty much everything.

'Everything' being not the meaning of the individual sentences, but rather the irritated cadence that made his voice rougher and deeper and even haughtier than ususal.

Completely betraying him, John's cock gave an interested twitch.

That was...not good. Very bad, in fact. He tried to concentrate on something that wasn't John junior or his roommate, but it was pretty much impossible. Especially when Sherlock raised his voice a bit , allowing him to hear the sharp edges of some words, as if he was insulting whoever was on the other line – which John was pretty sure was Mycroft – and his velvety delivery wasn't doing anything to help the situation.

John's breath hitched when Sherlock got his 'I'm explaining something that should be utterly obvious to anyone with eyes' tone, and started explaining something, probably about a case, and being terribly condescending all the while, and John was harder than he'd ever been since puberty, probably.

When he couldn't stand it anymore, he lowered a trembling hand and grabbed himself, desperate breathy gasps he had no control over escaping from his lips. With each drawn-out word in that low, composed voice, his skin became more flushed, and his breaths more laboured, until his knees started to feel like jelly and he was aching for release.

The low baritone continued expounding on why exactly everybody was an idiot with the brain of an amoeba, and John's vision was blacking out.

Then, while saliva trickled down his chin and the hot water felt icy compared to the heat of his body – Sherlock laughed. It was of course a derisive, mocking sound that was almost cruel coming from the consulting detective, but John was so far gone that he actually  _moaned_ as his already weak knees buckled and he came apart, gripping the edge of the bathtub in order not to crash down.

A few minutes later Sherlock hung up the phone, and John tried to simultaneously catch his breath and come to terms with what had just happened.

Clearly he'd been very tired, and also very pent up, that was all. Nothing to worry about, obviously. It was a stress thing, probably.  _Right_ .

Since Sherlock was the master of deduction and he lacked the tact to leave some things unsaid, he knew he wouldn't be able to hide what he'd been doing in the shower or at least have Sherlock gloss over it, so he very quickly disappeared in his room, hoping to be left alone to wallow in his miserable denial.

Of course, not even ten seconds later, he heard Sherlock call, "Mrs Hudson brewed us some tea, John! Come drink it with me!"

His face flushed instantly, and--

Ok, fuck.

  
  


The second time it happened, they were at a crime scene. Sherlock was deducing, as he usually did, everything of relevance in the vicinity while Donovan scowled, Lestrade took notes, and John tried to keep his cock from doing anything inappropriate.

The situation was already tragic enough as it was, so there was absolutely no need to make it worse by having an erection in front of the whole yard  _and_ Sherlock, who would no doubt deduce everything in two seconds flat. 

There was also the fact that there was a dead, bloody body staring up at him with empty eyes, and what kind of person would get aroused in  _that_ situation?

"...ohn!"

Actually, that was a good idea – if he concentrated on the mutilated corpse he could abate the effect of Sherlock's voice.

"John! Are you listening?" a deep voice inquired impatiently from about two inches away from his left ear. He flushed uncontrollably as something lurched in the pit of his stomach... and his cock stirred.

He was going to hell.

"Of – er – of course I'm listening," he stammered unconvincingly, his voice cracking in the middle. Sherlock frowned, and to his utter horror, the consulting detective's eyes darted here and there analysing every little detail, dissecting every clue, lingering on the flushed skin of his throat, on his probably dilated eyes and, alarmingly enough, on his crotch. His ears felt like they were on fire.

But it seemed there was a god somewhere, because Sherlock huffed frustratedly and went back to explaining the case, but not before shooting him a look that very clearly said 'I  _will_ get to the bottom of this'.

Sherlock continued to watch him suspiciously throughout their hunt for clues, analysing his every move with an ever present confused frown. Thankfully more things to think about meant less talking, so John couldn't complain. He also knew he had at least a few hours before Sherlock threw in the towel and just asked, or rather demanded the answer. And if he asked with the right voice, John was afraid he'd tell him anything he wanted.

He tried to focus on the matter at hand – hiding in a narrow alley with Sherlock, waiting for their man to pass from there on his way to the next murder. His infuriating roommate was certain of both the next victim and of the route the man would take to get to her house, so it was just a matter of waiting.

Simple, really. Except not at all, because Sherlock was drilling a metaphorical hole in his head from all the staring he was doing, and John was trying to act nonchalant and probably failing.

They were pressed pretty close together, and that would have been distressing on its own, but the the thrice-blasted detective had to lean in in even more, his lips grazing the shell of John's ear, and say, "He's coming. Probably five seconds now," in a low rough tone, and he could see Sherlock's eyes zero in on the flutter of John's eyelids and on the sound his breath made as it got hitched in his throat.

"John –"

"He's here!"

He'd never been more thankful at the sight of a serial murderer. With one last frowning look, Sherlock and he apprehended the criminal and went home in silence.

He knew it wouldn't end there, though. He could practically hear the cogs of the detective's brain turn during the cab ride, and it did not bode well for him.

Indeed, once they were inside, Sherlock grabbed his arm before he could run away-- err,  _retire_ to his room and asked, "What's going on with you then, John?"

He was far too close to his face, probably in order not to let any microexpression or spasm slip unnoticed, and judging by his intent look, he didn't miss the light flush spreading on his entire face, or the way his breaths became more shallow and careful.

"Nothing," he said unconvincingly, "I've just been a bit tired lately,"

With a knowing look, Sherlock leant in even more, observing his overheated ears, "No one manages to becomes sexually aroused with a dead body in the room because they're tired. Unless you're Molly Hooper, probably," he noticed John trying to turn his face away, and gripped it tightly, by now a mere breath away from him.

"No. No, my dear John," he said lowly, eyes intent, "I think something else is going on here... your dilated pupils, irregular breathing pattern and overheated skin point to a much more intriguing conclusion,"

Was he doing this on purpose? With his voice – god, that  _voice_ – rough and deep and vibrating on John's skin... how was he supposed to deal with this?

"Oh but John this is absolutely fascinating!" Sherlock half-whispered in audible wonder and delight, proceeding to catch him when his knees gave out, "I could have never dreamed – from a man such as yourself, with simple and clear sexual needs... this bears much more experimentation,"

Sherlock then deposited John on the couch, prepared himself a mug of tea, and sat elegantly on his chair, chin propped on his hand.

"Well, then, John," he said smoothly, sounding every syllable and lingering with particular care on his name, "You are very affected by my voice. How long has this been going on? A couple of months most probably. I remember more than one instance of you abandoning any activity you were indulging in to listen to my ramblings. But when did it become sexual?"

He wasn't expecting an answer. It was just like always, Sherlock deducing aloud, bouncing ideas and theories off him, with no need of intervention on his part.

John wanted to say something – something like 'Is this really happening? Or is this a wet dream?' or even 'Aren't you taking this a little too well?' – but his brain was unable to process anything beyond the sound of Sherlock's voice and his own aching cock. Now that the consulting detective knew about his fixation, his voice was ever deeper and richer and more compelling than usual, and it was doing things to him that he'd be worried about, if he hadn't been aroused beyond caring,

"Come, John, no need to restrain yourself. You can remove your shirt if you prefer, or your trousers, or everything if you like. You can be completely nude, I know you prefer it,"

_Oh god--_

He didn't think – couldn't think – and it took him several tries before he was able to get his trembling fingers to unhook every tiny disc from the fabric.

“Very good. You can leave it there on the floor. Now your trousers, please – yes, that's it, and do try not to hurt yourself,” Sherlock coaxed softly.

_'Do try not to hurt youself'._ Easier said than done, that.

John, still hardly breathing, lowerd his hands to the hem of his jeans, and just managed to slowly unbuttoned them. The sweaty and shaking tips of his thumb and forefinger closed around the zipper, and he dragged it down over the straining fabric, all under the fixed and intrigued gaze of his roommate.

The trousers joined John's shirt on the floor, but he hesitated when it came to his boxers.

_Sherlock is watching me take off my pants._

The sentence that float in his head sounded honestly ridiculous. The situation, surreal. Absurd, even.

He was about to say something to that effect – and awkwardly laugh about the past few minutes, - when Sherlock murmured, “Take them off, John,”

The words set his skin ablaze, arousal coiling low in his stomach like flames licking at his insides, and he had no other choice but to comply. Completely naked now, he sat back on the couch slouching with shame and embarrassment, legs pressed together and both hands cupped on his lap to hide his humiliating state.

Observing him, his features alight with interest, Sherlock said suddenly, “Ah, of course. Last month, when you came out of the shower out of sorts and refused to establish eye contanct for a whole week. That's when you first realized you found my voice _appealing_ ,"

John shivered, and a small, desperate sound escaped him. He pressed his hands down on his now painful erection. Sherlock could probably talk him to orgasm if kept going like that.

His roommate leaned forward, bony elbows on bony knees, and continued, smooth and leisurely as if John weren't about to _die_ , "I was on the phone you know, with Mycroft... Did you masturbate while listening to my voice? Hmm. Well now... no need to feel guilty, John. See? I can help. Now go ahead, touch yourself. It has to hurt,"

John, even though unable to shake a sense of surreality from making his head spin, started to brush his trembling fingertips to his cock, still holding the other hand as a pointless half-shield. Then...

A murmur.

“Open your legs,”

He inadvertently let out a half-sob, but felt his thighs inch apart until they were spread open. It was almost frightening that no matter the immense shame the situation caused him, he would obey. If he used that voice, John would always obey. In fact, was afraid he'd probably do anything he asked, if Sherlock used the right voice.

Sherlock made a pleased sound, a sort of deep, echoing 'Hmm' that vibrated on every cell of his skin, and John's hand helplessly twitched around his cock, pace picking up.

He gasped breathlessly as the detective encouraged and coaxed him through it, and he stopped being able to infer the meaning of the words he heard, just feeling every syllable, every small inflection, every vibration as if they were physically shaking up his insides.

At some point Sherlock had repositioned himself behind the couch, leaning over with a hand caressing John's hair and his mouth on his ear, murmuring constantly, until John thought he'd never breathe again.

And then, one simple, velvety command.

“You can come, John,”

the sound vibrated close, _much too close_ to the shell of his ear, and his eyes rolled back into his head – and it was over.

It took him a long time just to be able to breathe, barely.

Sherlock, who hadn't moved from his position behind the couch, said tenderly, "Oh, John, this is so wonderful," and laughed a little in his ear.

And in that moment John realized that there was no coming back from this. No hope of pretending it had never happened. No hope of ever escaping, probably. Which...

_'Yeah... it does sound rather wonderful'._

  
  


  
  


 


End file.
